A PAINFUL REVELATION.
A sprinkle of snow was driving down the unpaved street before the
bitter wind, when Mrs. Hastings came out of a store in the settlement
and handed Sproatly, who was waiting close by, several big packages.
"You can put them into the waggon, and tell Jake we'll want the team as
soon as supper's over," she said. "We're going to stay with Mrs.
Ormond to-night, and I don't want to get there too late."
Sproatly took the parcels, and Mrs. Hastings turned to Agatha, who
stood a pace or two behind her with Winifred.
"Now," she said, "if there's nothing else you want to buy we'll go
across to the hotel."
They reached it a few minutes later, and were standing in a big and
rather comfortless room when Sproatly rejoined them.
"This place is quite shivery," said Mrs. Hastings. "They generally
have the stove lighted in the little room along the corridor. Go and
see, Jim."
Sproatly went out, and, as it happened, he was wearing gum-boots, which
make very little noise. He proceeded along a dark corridor, and then
stopped abruptly when he had almost reached a partly-open door, for he
could see into a lighted room. Hawtrey was sitting near the stove
inside it on the arm of Sally's chair.
Then, though he was not greatly astonished, Sproatly drew back a pace
or two into the shadow, for it became evident that there were only two
courses open to him. He could judiciously announce his presence by
making the door rattle, and then go in and mention as casually as
possible that Mrs. Hastings and Agatha were in the hotel. He felt that
he ought to do it, but there was the difficulty that he could not warn
Hawtrey without embarrassing Sally. Sproatly pursed his face up in
honest perplexity as it became evident that the situation was a
delicate one, and then decided on the alternative. He would go back
quietly, and keep Mrs. Hastings out of the room if it could be done.
"I think you would be just as comfortable where you are," he informed
her when he joined the others.
"I'm rather doubtful," said Mrs. Hastings. "Wasn't the stove lighted?"
"Yes," said Sproatly, "I fancy it was."
"But I sent you to make sure."
"The fact is I didn't go in," said Sproatly, uneasily. "There's
somebody in the room already."
"Any of the boys would go out if they knew we wanted it."
"Oh yes," said Sproatly. "Still, you see, it's only a small room, and
one of them has been smoking."
Mrs. Hastings flashed a keen glance at him, and then smiled in a manner
he did not like. It suggested that while she yielded to his objections
in the meanwhile she had by no means abandoned the subject.
"Well," she said, "what shall we do until supper? This stove won't
draw properly, and I don't feel inclined to sit shivering here."
Then Sproatly was seized by what proved to be a singularly unfortunate
inspiration.
"It's really not snowing much, and we'll go down to the depôt and watch
the Atlantic express come in," he suggested. "It's one of the things
everybody does."
This was, as a matter of fact, correct. There are not many amusements
open to the inhabitants of the smaller settlements along the railroad
track, and the arrival of the infrequent trains is a source of
unflagging interest to most of them. Mrs. Hastings fell in with the
suggestion, and Sproatly was congratulating himself upon his diplomacy
when Agatha stopped as they reached the door of the hotel.
"Oh," she said, "I've only brought one of my mittens."
"I'll go back for the other," said Sproatly promptly.
"You don't know where I left it."
"Then I'll lend you one of mine. It will certainly go on," the man
persisted.
Agatha objected to this, and Sproatly, who fancied that Mrs. Hastings
was watching him, let her go, after which he and the others moved out
into the street. Agatha in the meanwhile ran back to the room they had
left, and, finding the mitten, had reached the head of the stairway
when she heard voices behind her in the corridor. She recognised them,
and turned in sudden astonishment, standing, as it happened, in the
shadow, though not far away a stream of light from the door of the room
shone out into the corridor. Next moment Hawtrey and Sally approached
the door, and as the light fell upon them the blood surged into
Agatha's face, for she remembered the embarrassment in Sproatly's
manner, and that he had done all he could to prevent her going back for
the mitten. Then Hawtrey spoke to Sally, and there was no doubt
whatever that he called her "My dear."
Agatha stood still a moment filled with burning indignation, and they
were almost upon her before she turned and fled precipitately down the
stairway. She felt that this was horribly undignified, but she could
not stay and face them. When she overtook the others she had, however,
at least recovered her outward composure, and they went on together
towards the track. As yet she was only sensible of anger at the man's
treachery. It possessed her too completely for her to be conscious of
anything else.
Cold as it was, there were a good many loungers in the station, and
Sproatly, who spoke to one or two of them, led his party away from the
little shed they hung about, and walked briskly up and down beside the
track until a speck of blinking light rose out of the white wilderness.
It grew rapidly larger, until they could make out a trail of smoke
behind it, and the roar of wheels rose in a long crescendo. Then a
bell commenced to toll, and the blaze of a big lamp beat into their
faces as the great locomotive came clanking into the station.
It stopped, and the light from the long car windows fell upon the
groups of watching fur-clad men, while here and there a shadowy object
that showed black against it leaned out from a platform. There was,
however, no sign of any passengers for the train until at the last
moment two figures appeared hurrying along beneath the cars. They drew
nearer, and Agatha set her lips tight as she recognised them, for the
light from a vestibule shone into Hawtrey's face as he half lifted
Sally on to one of the platforms and sprang up after her. Then the
bell tolled again, and the train slid slowly out of the station with
its lights flashing upon the snow.
Agatha turned away abruptly and walked a little apart from the rest.
The thing, she felt, only admitted of one explanation, and she did not
wish her companions to see her face for the next minute or two.
Sproatly's diplomacy had had a most unfortunate result, and she was
sensible of an almost intolerable disgust. She had kept faith with
Gregory, at least, as far as it was possible to her, and he had utterly
humiliated her. The affront he had put upon her was almost unbearable.
In the meanwhile, Mrs. Hastings walked up to Sproatly, who, feeling
distinctly uncomfortable, had drawn back judiciously into the shadow.
"Now," she said, "I understand. You, of course, anticipated this."
"I didn't," said Sproatly with a decision which carried conviction with
it. "I certainly saw them at the hotel, but how could I imagine that
they had anything of the kind in view?"
He broke off for a moment, and waved his hand. "After all," he added,
"what right have you to think it now?"
Mrs. Hastings laughed somewhat harshly. "Unfortunately, I have my
eyes, but I'll admit that there's a certain obligation on me to make
quite certain before going any further. That's why I want you to
ascertain where he checked his baggage to."
"I'm afraid that's more than I'm willing to undertake. Do you consider
it advisable to set the station agent wondering about the thing?
Besides, once or twice in my career appearances have been rather badly
against me, and I'm not altogether convinced yet."
Mrs. Hastings let the matter drop, and they went back rather silently
to the hotel, while as soon as supper was over she bade Sproatly get
their waggon out and drove away with Agatha. She said very little to
the girl during the long, cold journey, and they had no opportunity of
private conversation when they reached the homestead where they were to
spend the night, which was, as it happened, a relief to Agatha. She
hated herself for the thought in her mind, but everything seemed to
warrant it, and it would not be driven out. She had heard what Gregory
had called Sally at the hotel, and the fact that he must have bought
his ticket and checked his baggage earlier in the afternoon when there
was nobody about, and then had run down with Sally at the last moment,
evidently in order to escape observation, was very significant.
She drove home next day, and on the following morning a man who was
driving in to Lander's brought Mrs. Hastings a note from Sproatly. It
was very brief, and ran:
"Gregory arrived same night by Pacific train. It is evident he must
have got off at the next station down the line."
Mrs. Hastings showed it to her husband.
"I'm afraid we have been too hasty. What am I to do with this?" she
said.
Hastings smiled. "Since you ask my advice, I'd put it into the stove."
"But it clears the man. Isn't it my duty to show it to Agatha?"
"Well," said Hastings reflectively, "I'm not sure that it is your duty
to put ideas into her mind when you can't be quite certain that she has
entertained them."
"I should be greatly astonished if she hadn't," said the lady drily.
Hastings made a little whimsical gesture. "Oh," he said, "you'll no
doubt do what you think wisest. In a general way, when you come to me
for advice you have made your mind up, and only expect me to tell you
that you're right."
Mrs. Hastings thought over the matter for another hour or two. For one
thing, Agatha's quiet manner puzzled her, and she did not know that the
girl had spent one night in an agony of anger and humiliation, and had
then become sensible of a relief that she was ashamed of. There was,
however, no doubt that while she blamed herself for it, and in some
degree for what had happened, she did feel relief. She was sitting
alone for the time being beside the stove in a shadowy room while the
light died off the snowy prairie outside, when Mrs. Hastings came
softly in and sat down beside her.
"My dear," she said, "it's rather difficult to speak of, but that
little scene at the station must have hurt you."
Agatha looked at her quietly and searchingly, but there was only
sympathy in her face, and she leaned forward impulsively.
"Oh," she said, "it hurt me horribly, because I feel it was my fault.
I was the cause of it."
"How could that be?"
"If I had only been kinder to him he would, perhaps, never have thought
of her. I must have made it clear that he jarred upon me. I drove
him"--and Agatha turned her face away, while her voice grew a trifle
strained--"into that woman's arms. No doubt she was ready to make the
most of the opportunity."
Mrs. Hastings decided that the girl's scorn and disgust which had
prompted the last outbreak were perfectly natural, but they were, as it
happened, not quite warranted.
"In the first place," she said, "I think you had better read this note."
Agatha took it from her, and there was light enough left to show that
the blood had crept into her face when she laid it down again. For
almost a minute she sat very still.
"It is a great relief to know that I was wrong--in one respect, but you
must not think I hated this girl because Gregory had preferred her to
me," she said at length. "When the first shock had passed, there was
an almost horrible satisfaction in feeling that he had released me--at
any cost. I suppose I shall always be ashamed of that."
She broke off a moment, and her voice was very quiet when she went on
again.
"Still," she added, "what Sproatly says does not alter the case so very
much after all. It can't free me of my responsibility. If I hadn't
driven him, Gregory would not have gone to her."
"You consider that in itself a very dreadful thing?"
Agatha looked at her with suddenly lifted head. "Of course," she said.
"Can you doubt it?"
Her companion laughed, though there was a little gleam in her eyes, for
this was an opportunity she had been waiting for.
"Then," she said, "you spoke like an Englishwoman--of station--just out
from the Old Country--but I'm going to try to disabuse you of one
impression. Sally, to put it crudely, is quite good enough for
Gregory. In fact, if she had been my daughter I'd have kept him away
from her. To begin with, once you strip Gregory of his little surface
graces, and his clean English intonation, how does he compare with the
men you meet out here? What does his superiority consist of? Is he
truer or kinder than you have found most of them to be? Has he a finer
courage, or a more resolute endurance--a greater capacity for labour,
or a clearer knowledge of the calling by which he makes his living?"
Agatha did not answer. She could not protest that Gregory possessed
any of these qualities, and her companion went on again.
"Has he even a more handsome person? I could point to a dozen men
between here and the railroad, whose clean, self-denying life has set a
stamp on them that Gregory will never wear. To descend to perhaps the
lowest point of all, has he more money? We know he wasted what he
had--probably in indulgence--and there is a mortgage on his farm. Has
he any sense of honour? He let Sally believe he was in love with her
before you even came out here, and of late, while he still claimed you,
he has gone back to her. Can't you get away from your point of view,
and realise what kind of man he is?"
Agatha turned her head away. "Ah!" she said, "I realised him--several
months ago. They were rather painful months to me. But you are quite
sure he was in love with Sally before I came out?"
"Well," said Mrs. Hastings, "his conduct suggested it." Then she laid
a caressing hand on the girl's shoulder. "You tried to keep faith with
him. Tried desperately, I think. Did you succeed?"
Agatha contrived to meet her companion's eyes. "At least, I would have
married him."
"Then," said Mrs. Hastings, "I can forgive Gregory even his treachery,
and you have no cause to pity him. Sally's simple--primitive, you
would call her--but she's clever and capable in all practical things,
She will bear with Gregory when you would turn from him in dismay, and
when it's necessary she will not shrink from putting a little judicious
pressure on him in a way you could not have done. It may sound
incomprehensible, but that girl will lead or drive Gregory very much
further than he could have gone with you. She doesn't regard him as
perfection, but she loves him."
She broke off, and there was for several minutes a tense silence in the
little shadowy room. It had grown almost dark, and the square of the
window glimmered faintly with the dim light flung up by the snow.
Then Agatha turned slowly in her chair. "Thank you," she said in a low
voice. "You have taken a heavy weight off my mind."
She paused a moment, and then added, "You have been a good friend all
along. It was supreme good fortune that placed me in your hands."
Mrs. Hastings patted her shoulder, and then went out quietly, and
Agatha lay still in her chair beside the stove. It snapped and
crackled cheerfully, but save for that there was a restful quietness,
and the room was cosily warm, though she could hear a little icy wind
wail about the building. It swept her thoughts away to the frozen
North, and she realised what it had cost her to keep faith with Gregory
as she pictured a little snow-sheeted schooner hemmed in among the
floes, and two or three worn-out men hauling a sled painfully over the
ridged and furrowed ice. The man who had gone up into that great
desolation had been endued with an almost fantastic sense of honour,
and now he might never even know that she loved him. She admitted that
she had loved him several months ago.